Wessington Springs herald. (Wessington Springs, Aurora County, Dakota [S.D.]) 1883-1891, 1887-09-09

INTO ranks; the staff officers abont hove
ana there; the companies file ont into
the road or upon the field. AZ tho limo
VI nlareh may be; columns of reei-
. nn1 -. o11Sades, divisions are formed;
ana me days march begins.
IL Viii be a twenty march, AMI
Not q difficult thing some brisk
young athlete observes. IT have
walked farther than that in a day."
Have you? Well, suppose YOU trv
1t as these soldiers do it. Put a s;x-
tteen-pound musket over your shoulder.
Hang a cartridge box over vour h;ns
loaaea With forty rounds of fixed am
m .ll Sling on a havesack filed
with peck Of cooked rations. Fold
your wool blanket and your rubber
blanket, and strap them over your
shoulder. Add your canteen full of
water. Here you have anywhere be-
tween xty and eighty pounds weight.
You wouldn't like this, young fellow.
tours?
Moreover, the man who thinks that
there Is no difference in easily walking
at will along the green roadside. and
marching in a column in the middle of
q dusty road, with man before him.
behind him, and on one or both sides
OF him, had better try both ways be-
fore forming his opinion.
| our column moves on-cavalry at
the front, artillery in the intervals,
infantry strung out at the route-step,
wagons at the rear, all toiling on. In
the first hour you may hear talk, Jokes,
speculations about the campaign, etc.
But the sun mounts higher and blazes
down fiercely upon us. The air is full
of dust; everybody is covered with it.
The march grows painful. The can
teens are empty. Thirst, WEAKNESS,
heat, are upon you all at once. It is
the perfection of misery in the SOL
dier's life.
The ranks are silent; the laugh and
jest have ceased. These men are suf-
fering bodily torment. They grit their
teeth; they clutch their muskets; they
drag themselves along. Do they COM
plain? Yes. in mild way; else they
would not be soldiers. They mutter
to themselves; they grumble; but
they keep on. How much nature can
bear without the body fainting and
failing, they have hundred times
found out.
The bugle sounds halt; it is ten
minutes rest. They sink to the ground
in their tracks, and make the most of
the brief pause. A man in each COM
pany is loaded with q dozen canteens
and dispatched for water. The bugle
sounds again; we get up and YEARLY
resume the march.
l have seen men fall with sunstroke
at such time, never to rise again. I
lave seen faithful soldiers tumble in
their tracks, clear spent with weari-
ness. How can speak of these things
without giving my own experience? I
have dragged myself along mile after
mile, with blistered feet, aching limbs,
with such torments of thirst as Dives
knew when he looked out of hell-and
have managed to endure it all, for the
sake of the example to those under me-
Shall I speak of a forced march at
night-of weary, half-awakened men
stumbling along in the dark, actually
sleeping as the march goes on? Hun
ger can be borne, fatigue or physical
pain can bo endured; but if you wish
to know what is the most exquisite tor
ment, ask the soldier. He will tell you
that it is deprivation of sleep. I have
read how, in some of the barbarous
countries of the East, the criminal is
tortured simply by keeping him awake.
Many of the veterans can realize what
it means.
But "the long, long, weary day" must
end at last. The welcome halt for the
night sounds. The multitude OF 1egi-
ments file into the fields. The arms
are stacked, the accouterments are re-
moved, the bacon and coffee are cooked
again; unless we are detailed for
picket, we shall enjoy such luxury of
rest as only thoroughly exhausted
soldier may know. The fires are re-
plenished, pipes are lit, officers and
soldiers fraternize around the camp
fire. Incidents OF the march are re-
counted, stories are told, song and jest
Tighten the hour. And soon the ground
is covered with slumbering forms,
wrapped in their blankets. While the
stars wheel in their silent courses, they
dream of home, never thinking Of the
morrow.
"Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are
marching" The burden of the old
war-song had decided smack of truth.
And sometimes the truth took fierce
aspect. Sometimes the rattle Of car
bines broke out at the front; the staff
came galloping along the column; bat
teries went dashing up. "Step out
long, men!" was the cry. The roar OF
battle would swell and strengthen
ahead; the smoke would rise over the
trees. ''Double-quick, double-quick!"
was shouted and taken up all along the
column, and the old brigade would go,
with dash and cheer, to it's place in
the line, deploy, and take a strong
hand in the business that was the OBJ
iective point of all this marching and
preparation-the work of killing and
getting killed.
That Five Ohio' Suffer.
In May, 1861, an Engishman named